


Fighting Chance

by magicbubblepipe



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets in the way of an argument between Dean and their dad, with a painful outcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting Chance

“All I’m askin’ for is a couple of weeks, a month tops.”

            “Out of the question, Dean, we’ve already had this discussion!”

Sam’s quiet pleas are going unheard over the din of his older brother and father going at each other’s throats like he isn’t even there. “Guys, calm down. C’mon don’t do this again.”

            “It’s not a discussion when all you do is yell at me, Dad.       

            “Because you’re being a goddamn idiot! Anyway, who’s going to look after Sammy while you’re out on vacation, huh?”

            “I’ll drop him off with Bobby. He won’t mind the company.”

            “You can’t just pawn off your responsibilities on someone else.”

            “Really? Because you do it all the fucking time!”

            Sam sees John drawing back his fist to hit Dean and he, unthinking, jumps between them, yelling for them to stop. John, blinded with rage, plows his fist into the side of his youngest son’s face. The force is enough to knock the fifteen year old boy to the ground, pain exploding across his cheekbone. There is a moment of complete silence before realization dawns on John’s face and he gasps out a stricken “Sammy…”

            He makes a move to touch him but Dean is already on the ground next to his brother, pulling the boy into his arms. He cradles Sam’s head against his chest and stares unblinking daggers into his father. It freezes the older man where he stands.

            “Get out.” It’s all Dean has to say, eyes fixed, daring John to take another step toward them.

            Tears of shame start to well in John’s eyes and it’s all he can do to turn tail as fast as he can, slamming the door of the motel room behind him. As soon as he’s gone, Dean’s anger fades quickly to concern and he takes Sam’s face in his hands, looking him over.

            “Sammy, are you alright?” The skin over Sam’s left cheekbone is broken and the skin around it is already starting to swell to a livid purplish red.

            “I’m okay, Dean,” the younger boy says, eyes looking dazed. His head’s pounding horribly and he’s pretty sure his eye’s beginning to swell shut but he really doesn’t like Dean to worry.

            “I call bullshit,” Dean replies and then, “C’mon,” he helps him to his feet and leads him over to one of the rickety chairs in the kitchenette.

            Once Sam is seated, Dean soaks a washcloth in cold water and gives it to him to press against the wound while he seeks out the Winchester version of a first aid kit. He plunks down the large box on the little Formica table and starts rooting through it for supplies. Pulling up another chair in front of Sam, he gently takes away the washcloth, pleased to see that the bleeding has nearly stopped. And then remembers why he was bleeding in the first place and wave of rage washes over him, making his hands shake before he can reign it back in.

            Sam watches Dean’s eyes with quiet concern as his brother dabs at the cut with some antiseptic (Sam only hisses a little) and fits the skin back together with a butterfly closure. Dean says nothing as he digs out a couple of aspirin and fills a cup with some water from the sink. Sam takes the proffered drugs and keeps his eyes on Dean as he methodically puts everything back into the kit and stores it under a cabinet.

            When he’s done, he stops and stands with his hands on the countertop, his head hanging down between his shoulders and Sam fidgets, wanting to say something but not knowing what could possibly make him feel better. He doesn’t have to because Dean speaks first.

            “Pack your bags, Sammy,” he says, voice low and more tired than a nineteen year old should sound, “We’re leaving.”

            “Where are we going?”

            “We’re gonna stay with Bobby for a while.”

            “But Dad took the Impala-

            “Hell, we’ll get a bus for all I care but we’re leaving tonight!”

            Sam doesn’t argue. Frankly he’s had enough fighting for one day. He packs his meager possessions into his duffle bag while Dean does the same. Dean calls Bobby to let him know they’re coming and then they hoof it to the bus station. They receive plenty of looks, concerned or suspicious, but they’re boarding a bus by midnight and heading for South Dakota.

            Sam makes a valiant effort at staying awake but he finally drops off to sleep around 2 A.M, his head falling onto Dean’s shoulder. Dean feels gradually less angry the more miles they put between them and their dad but a deep sadness, a longing for the normal life they’ll never have, creeps in and takes its place. He’s slowly coming to realize that it’s too late for him to get away. He’s too deeply entrenched in the life of a hunter to go back. _But Sam,_ he thinks, putting a protective arm around his little brother, _he still has a fighting chance._

            He wants Sam to have safe and normal and stable like they’ve never had growing up. He wants Sam to get away. His stomach twists painfully. And he wants Sam to never leave. He’s so tired. He rests his cheek atop Sam’s head just like they’ve always done in the back of the car and drifts to sleep, knowing Bobby will be there to pick them up in the morning.

           

 

            


End file.
